Denial
by kabusakuGirl
Summary: Hojo contemplates his relationship about his long deceased-wife Lucrecia.


**Warnings: **Slight sexual implications (nothing explictit).

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Final Fantasy VII or any of its Compilation sequels or prequels.

**Denial**

There were many rumors surrounding the head professor of the Shin-Ra Science Department. Rumors about how he created many of the monsters roaming around Midgar, experimented on humans, never batted an eyelash at some of the more horrifying and inhumane tests that he performed, and that he viewed the world, and himself, as merely test subjects for the pursuit of science. All of these rumors Professor Hojo would admit to be true, and perhaps might even laugh at any who doubt the belief that he could be so cruel. However, he always denied two rumors. The first rumor was that Hojo actually has a heart. The second rumor was that he was, and still is, in love with his former assistant, Lucrecia Crescent.

For the first rumor Hojo countered that as a human being, which he still _is_ despite popular consensus, he does have a physical beating heart. His metaphorical heart, the type most sentimental people associate with when dealing with emotions, was discarded years ago when he became a scientist. Or perhaps he never had one in the first place. In either case, he held no grief over the loss of morals and lack of empathy that he had developed after discarding the wretchedly weak thing. This abandonment had served him well over the years. As for the matter with Lucrecia, well…

Hojo is not in love with Lucrecia. He never was. Perhaps he was slightly fond of her, but how could he not be? Humans had a natural instinct to attach themselves to others as a part of their survival, _especially_ to their mates. He had married her almost thirty years ago, a little fact that had been kept secret from the rest of the company except for an increasingly dwindling exclusive number of people. He had made sure the number had dwindled down to what it is now.

Yet it seemed that rumors are much harder to kill then he first thought. How the rumor had even gotten started was a mystery to him, yet it had persisted for decades.

He is _not_ in love with Lucrecia. He said this to whoever mentioned it, in passing or otherwise, as well as to himself every once in the while in front of his reflection. Hojo often denied many things when his thoughts turned to her.

Hojo never missed the way she would smile; the corners of her lips turned up and would always be tinged with sadness that he never bothered to understand. Nor did he miss her laughter, which abandoned any sense of melancholy and seemed to come from deep within her… and he never felt bitter and angry that the only time he had ever actually seen her laugh was when she was with that Turk, Valentine, while Hojo was hiding behind the corner of the wall.

He never missed the way she embraced him. The way her warmth would wrap around him in a comforting and almost loving manner. He never missed wrapping his own arms around her seemingly fragile body in an attempt to bring her closer to him and feel hers tighten just slightly, to prove that _she_ needed _him_ for his plans.

He never missed lying next to her in his bed nor did he miss her when he was all alone or, even worse, when he was with another woman. There was always something wrong with his "companions." They would have the wrong hair color (_the wrong shade of brown_), the wrong eyes (_never the right hue of reddish-brown_), the wrong sounds (_always too high or too low_), the wrong feel (_Hands were much too soft and breasts much too generous_), and the wrong smell (_always the smell of the sun, ocean, and too much alcohol. Not the lilac scent touched by chemicals_). For these reasons he had yet to invite any of them to his real bed, preferring to indulge his activities in the guest bedroom on the far side of the house. Once a week he would return to his old bed, the one he had shared with Lucrecia years ago, and he would breathe in the faded scent of lilacs still imprinted in the cloth sheets no matter how many times he washed them.

He never remembered the feeling of her warm, slightly chapped lips against his, sometimes chaste, sometimes not. The fleeting goodnights kiss on his cheek that she sometimes gave to him when she thought he was sleeping and she had just returned from God-knows-where. The much longer celebratory kisses that she gave when they made a breakthrough and were all alone, and the kiss _he_ gave to _her_ when she told him she was pregnant and the child was his and not-

No, he did not miss her kisses.

He knew that he did felt homicidal towards Valentine, and had even acted upon the impulse to shoot him, but that was only because the assassin had started to lecture him on the lack of morality he had for his newest experiment, not because he had found out that the _boy_ had fallen in love with her, nor was it because _she_ loved _him_ back.

He never felt jealous when he found out that she had married him because she had felt too guilty to marry that Turk. He never felt angry, jealous, betrayed, depressed, hurt or a hundred different emotions when he found out that she _didn't _love him. How could he, when he reciprocated those feelings of indifference or even hate?

How could he feel such things, when he didn't have a heart?

He had even proven that he didn't feel anything towards her. The image of her pleading, pitiful eyes while she begged him to let him hold her son _just once_ while she lay on the operating table, exhausted after childbirth did not leave him, but it did not haunt him. He hadn't even looked at her, and simply ordered the doctors to prepare the specimen for testing. When he found out that she had attempted suicide, he hadn't bat an eyelash. She had served her purpose.

But Hojo swore that late at night, with no one else around, when he was telling these things to his reflection in the bathroom mirror, a small genderless voice in the back of his mind would whisper to him. It would tell him that he _did _miss her smile, her laughter, her presence, her kiss. That he _did _feel betrayed and jealous over her love for another. That he _is _in love with her, even to this day. That he _has _finally lost his mind because of a combination of her and a myriad of his other late night experiments, and that his own mind was a ticking time bomb to the day it would finally collapse into some kind of neurotic episode.

But Hojo would scoff at this voice. What would it know? He had the greatest scientific mind in the world. He couldn't possibly make the mistake of being in love with a now long dead woman. His mind is completely intact, he would say. He isn't insane in the least. So he would go to bed and shut off his lamplight.

He always ignored the sight of his lampshade smiling at him.

**A/N:** Oh Hojo, what did I _do_ to you? This is the result of reading too many sympathetic Hojo/Lucrecia, and developing a fascination for a certain jerkass scientist's personality. This type of degrading fluff happens only when I'm bored and I have nothing to do (usually during Culinary Arts). I know I should be working on other fanfics, but this plot bunny just wouldn't die until I fulfilled its wishes. So I created this. And good lord, if I get good reviews I will be surprised. The ending line is based off of "The Chosen" by Voltaire, a song which has literally nothing to do with this story except to prove that yes, Hojo is crazy. Go listen to it just to prove my point that I am a horrible writer.


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